In reality, the last days of my father's life, were spent in a nursing home and than hospice care.  I have recently being going through the many sketchbooks that I kept during that time and found this story.  He was a vivid dreamer. He would talk in his sleep and I would write it down. He talked a lot of an Indian. Than he started to see that same Indian in waking reality.  I asked him if he had seen an Indian doctor that day. No, not that kind of Indian , he'd say. So I googled various Native faces and brought the pix of them into him. Yes, this is the one, as I showed him an Aboriginal face. That is the person that is here in this room. I found that interesting because I don't ever even think he knew about the aboriginal culture or thought of it. But here it was. He was seeing lot of people who have passed , which I knew as normal, for people as they get close to death. Than one day, he held up his hand and started to point between the fingers and naming all the people in our family who have passed away. That night when I returned to my sisters, I told her about it. She said , well maybe he is disorientated. I thought , well maybe but it did not feel right to me. I went up to bed and started to read, "The Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreaming" by Robert Bosnak , on page 6 , he talks of the Aboriginal healer, who describes flying to the Milky Way" Then he reaches the place in the milky way that is like a hand. There the dead ngankaris are. He draws a hand in the sand". The thought of being connected to all the dreaming cultures, when we allow ourselves to be , or in the end of our lives when our defenses are down, seemed profound. This showed me once again the power of dreams to heal and to transform you. I am sure when my father  passed over the Indian was with him.